


of boyar bones

by Megkips



Category: Castlevania (Cartoon)
Genre: Backstory, Boyars and Wallachian hierarchy, Family, Gen, Politics, Wallachian history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-18
Updated: 2021-01-18
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28724286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megkips/pseuds/Megkips
Summary: As Wallachia struggles against the Ottoman Empire and Vlad III earns the nameImpaler, the Belmonts fight their excommunication from the Church.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am not a scholar of medieval Romanian history or socio-economics. However, the Belmonts were likely boyars during one of the most chaotic times of Wallachia's history, and it doubtlessly factored into their excommunication and fall from grace. Please see the end of the work for further notes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a scholar of medieval Romanian history or socio-economics. However, the Belmonts were likely boyars during one of the most chaotic times of Wallachia's history, and it doubtlessly factored into their excommunication and fall from grace. Please see the end of the work for further notes.
> 
> (See the end of the work for more notes.)

The notice of excommunication arrived a week before the massive impalement of Ottoman soldiers that would go down in history as the Night Attack at Târgoviște, delivered by a papal legate whose retinue was mostly made of fellow boyars rather than other emissaries from Rome. A horrible black wax with the papal seal stared up at Mircea Belmont, and that there was no burst of flame or stench of sulphur when he broke it was an actual surprise. There was only the horrible tension of so many eyes watching him read the words of Rome and the official decree that, _As of the delivery of this notice, yourself and your family are no longer permitted to receive sacraments, attend church services, or claim to be members of the Holy Church. Review and repeal of this excommunication may only be done at the pleasure of the Holy Father as he sees fit._

It was an easy thing to place the notice down on the table that sat beside the largest chair in Great Hall of the Belmont estate. It was even easier to meet the eyes of all that were studying Mircea, waiting. Gauging his reaction. Wanting to pounce on any little thing.

His eyes settled not on the legate, but his fellow boyars. He knew them. There was Matei Grădișten, whose land sat besides the Belmonts’ and who was as close an ally as any. Andrei Ursu, one of Vlad III’s staunchest supporters, stood not inches from the legate, a cold look in his dark eyes enhanced by the dark green of his clothes. There was the one man only ever known as The Grecu thanks to his family’s late arrival in Wallachia, and half a dozen others. Mircea did not pick one in particular to stare into the eyes of. He was not so ignorant of politics as to assume that there was only _one_ notice to be given here. “You wouldn’t all arrive here as an escort. Am I safe in assuming that either our esteemed prince or my fellow boyars have drafted a decree that requires my attention?”

The Grecu flinched for a moment. Andrei’s stone face revealed nothing. Matei’s eyebrows knit together, and _there._ That was the tell that Mircea needed, although it brought no comfort. The group had to consider. Determine if they should tip their hand.

“We will have to,” Andrei said, trying to make it sound like this entire series of events was a real surprise. _Shit._ How long had he known? How long had any of them known? “The Romanian Church is too newly reconciled with Rome to risk not addressing the excommunication with one of Wallachia’s oldest families, Belmont. You understand.”

Mircea’s face managed a thin smile. “Of course. We were heavily invested in the Council of Florence, after all.” The calmness remained, and Mircea’s blue eyes moved to focus on the legate himself.

“This is latae sententiae?”

The legate was a young thing with a wispy beard, likely the son of some minor Italian noble who wanted to rise in the ranks of the Papal State. His face was just evening out like any twenty-something, although perhaps twenty was generous. A year or two younger seemed a better guess, likely the same age as Mircea’s second-youngest, Ioanna. The legate nodded, certain and calm.

“Yes, sir.”

“Will you carry a message back to the Holy Father from an excommunicant?”

A pause came from the legate, but after a moment, he nodded. “If I can see you pen the correspondence.”

“Very well. And you’ll want me to have a servant go fetch paper and pen rather than have me step away to do it?”

“Please.”

A soft rustle from the far corner of the Hall meant someone had overheard enough of the discussion to get the requested items. It also happily informed Mircea that a small crowd had gathered in the far entrance to the Great Hall to witness this meeting, contributing to the sudden spike of tension in the room. To turn around was to make this into an even greater scene than it was already, and Mircea could give no satisfaction on that front. It’d invite all to view the head of the Belmont home as lacking control in the moment.

It took no time to pen the response once paper and pen were brought, along with a candle, wax, and the seal of the Belmonts. _To beat back the Devil is no sin,_ it read in part. _This family has supported the Church not only through fighting back what lurks at the edge of Europe, but in the Church’s reunification efforts as recent as the 1436 decision which brought Wallachia back to the fold._

In truth, it was a brief of a long legal fight yet to come. As Mircea poured hot wax onto the paper, he began to calculate the time it would take to go to Rome. Who among his children were best suited for managing the hunt while he was absent, how Trevor’s training might continue, and a dozen contingency plans should anything go awry or Dracula decide to fall upon the estate once he heard that it was without a primary defender.

Partings took longer. There were rules of formality to observe in seeing out guests, and Mircea pointedly did not rush through it. He himself closed the front door when the group left, and he’d be a liar if he denied finding the click of the lock especially satisfying.

No one was behind him when Mircea turned around. His eyes moved left to where the east wing began, and the figure of his wife standing against the stone archway that led to it.

Alexandra’s family was no less old and noble than the Belmonts, capable of tracing lineage back to before Radu Negru made Wallachia into _Wallachia._ She was all sharp lines, even after carrying four children who had survived to adulthood, and her cat-green eyes always betrayed her emotions. They were currently full of concern tempered with the knowledge that letting a real emotion out right now was a poor choice. Daylight hours meant servants still flitted about, and needing to discuss the delicate matter of excommunication meant that no prying ears could overhear what was to be a too long and too heated discussion.

Mircea nodded twice, then turned on his heel. Half an hour later, he stood beside the index deep in the Belmont Hold, watching his wife read the notice of excommunication.

“Those _fuckers!_ ” she concluded, slamming the paper down atop the index and then cringing from the sheer force of paper being smacked atop a thousand page hardcover book. Trevor was starting to sound like her these days. “And _bullshit_ that Andrei and the other boyars don’t have a draft of what they’re going to pin to the door tomorrow. They’re going to take the obști the red hot second they get Vlad III to agree to it, if they haven’t already.”

“From what I can tell, our current leader is too focused on the Ottomans to be dealing with a small matter like this,” Mircea said with a heavy sigh. “They’ll probably just have all the other noble houses agree to it and that’ll be that and--”

Alexandra frowned, eyes moving from her husband to the books around them. “How quickly do you think it can be passed through?”

“Two weeks if we’re lucky, a week if we aren’t. Messengers have to cross the countryside for them to coordinate, and the movement of the Ottomans and the Voivode’s army may delay them. We need to start preparing now. I believe this is designated emergency response plan 548.”

“I thought that was ‘Dracula figures out a spell to pull the entire estate to the same place he has the castle’?”

Mircea shook his head. “That’s 547. Both of them involve evacuation, easy to get them confused. 548 is for human-related issues. I’ll stay down here to pack the essentials outlined in that plan; you need to focus on the material in the house so as not to rouse suspicion.”

Alexandra began to walk away from the index, boots scuffing against the stone floor, but paused. “Does the plan say when to inform any children?”

“Not until we depart. They’ll know something’s wrong, but the details could still be shared with people who shouldn’t know. Even sending Mioara and Irina back to their husbands’ homes right now could be an issue.”

“Brutally practical,” Alexandra said with a sigh. “As ever.”

An apologetic noise responded, coupled with, “I know.”

Mircea sighed only when he heard the doors of the Hold close, echoing down and down through the shelves of books and artifacts collected over the centuries. He had no time to let out a tirade of swears as his wife had, there was only packing and preparing to lead his family to safety. There were strongholds built into the Carpathians, made out of the fear that one day Dracula might triumph over Wallachia and the Belmonts would need a place of refuge.

Wrong enemy.

 _The Morning Star_ was at the top of the list of items to be saved, and as Mircea walked towards the space of shelving that hid the whip, he let the scene in the Hall play in his mind. The charges included black magic. Abandonment of duties. Failing to be loyal to the Church. This to a family that had ridden on Crusades. Who had dedicated their lives to fighting the Devil’s creatures and holding back the worst darkness. Who remained a part of the Church even as the rest of Wallachia turned to other interpretations of the Word of God. Who kept Christian principles in all of their work, even the mundane management of lands.

_Mircea was five the first time he rode out of the Belmont estate to visit the obști. His elder brother (killed on a hunt at age twenty-three thanks to a night creature biting out his heart) Ștefan took him at their father's request. Mircea sat in front of his brother on a dark grey horse, thrilling at the movement and then letting awe take over._

_He'd not left the estate grounds till then, and knew only them and the surrounding woods, where game flourished. To see open fields was a revelation._

_"We_ own _all of this?"_

_Where their father was a no-nonsense man who laughed rarely, Ștefan let warmth and joy radiate off of him. "Yeah, Mir," he said, moving one hand from the reins and ruffling Mircea's hair. "Father told you that, I know he did."_

_"Yeah but--hey!" Mircea swatted at the hand. "You'd yell if mother did that to you!"_

_Another laugh. "Oh, called out by my own family! And technically, we may own the land, but that's the least important part of it."_

_The sound of church bells in the distance chiming in the hour muted the question of,_ The least important part? _, and Mircea's eyes remained focused on the road ahead until, after what seemed an eternity, he and his brother (and a cart of supplies driven by a servant) arrived in the smallest hamlet plaza that one might ever see. It was only a well with enough room on all sides to fit a cart. There were maybe a dozen buildings present, all thatched roofs and wooden walls to keep out the horrid heat of high summer._

_"Okay!" Ștefan said brightly, dismounting the horse with the energy and flexibility of any fifteen-year-old. "Mir, you need to watch. When we're done for the day, you have to tell me what you saw. Got it?"_

_Mircea nodded affirmative. "Can I say hi to people?"_

_"No, Mir, I brought you here to be a weird little antisocial goblin." Ștefan was terrible at deadpanning, as even that had a laugh threaded through it. "Of course! People here know of you anyway. It'll be good for them to meet you properly."_

_"_ How? _"_

 _Ștefan grinned. "That's part of what you have to tell me on the ride back._ Miss Maria? _We were able to find some spare seeds in our storerooms; do you have a minute to discuss how much your family will be planting this year?"_

_The people there liked Ștefan. Mircea knew that instantly, because no matter who passed by, they called to him. He knew their names and he asked them questions in turn. So many questions about plants and cows and chickens, some questions about attending mass or - ugh. Someone's grandma two towns over. A few of them waved to Mircea, and those who waved were given introductions._

_"Our youngest," Ștefan said with pride. "Father thought I'd be a better instructor for this."_

_An older woman who had three children in tow laughed at that introduction. It was her words that made Mircea remember it all the years later, because she had patted Ștefan's wrist in a warm and friendly way, a way no boyar would traditionally allow. "Your father's a good man, but smarter for delegating this time around. How's your eldest sister getting on in Gresit?"_

_It wasn't until workers began to return from their day labor in the fields that they began to make their way back to the estate. Mircea waited quietly for his brother to follow through on what he’d said would be asked by the end of the day, and after they had cleared the village, the query came._

_Ștefan's voice was as good humored as ever, but there was the rare twinge of seriousness in it. “Based on what you saw me and Aurel do today, what is important for a boyar to know about their obști?”_

_“Names,” Mircea said with confidence. “Everyone’s names. And stuff about their cows.”_

_“Mmhmm, stuff about their cows is very important. Why?”_

_Mircea knew that too. “Everyone needs milk. And that’s why you ask about chickens too, because everyone needs eggs. And you asked about seeds because everyone needs bread! Wait, we didn’t go to a mill today--”_

_Ștefan’s laugh was quieter. “I’m going to the mill tomorrow. But what else, Mir, why ask at all?”_

_“They’re our lands, so we have to know about them! And these people know the land best!”_

_It was said with the certainty only a child could have. Mircea puffed out his chest, and laughed when his brother pushed it back down very gently._

_“You’ve got half of it. They’re our lands, but what about the people?”_

_“Oh.” Mircea paused. Frowned. Frowned harder. “Like how we fight Dracula for everyone’s sake?”_

_Mircea couldn’t see Ștefan nod, and so his older brother followed the gesture with, “Exactly. People moved to the obști because Leon and his sons were able to protect them, and not just from Dracula and the night world.”_

_“So from people who make father extra grumpy by the time they leave?”_

_Ștefan let out an undignified noise that the horse went so far as to reply to. “Exactly like that, Mir. We protect all of Wallachia as Belmonts, but we protect the people who live on our lands for the same reason. You want to come to the mill with me tomorrow?”_

_Mircea nodded, turning around just enough so his brother could see the real excitement on his face. “Yeah!”_

He had loved going to the mill and seeing how it all worked. Mircea still made the journey every so often, as it carried warm memories with it. He hunted fewer monsters these days, as their presence and Dracula’s own had waned over the past decade and change. Dracula had stopped trying to attack the estate about a century ago. A Constantin Belmont recorded that the vampire had declared the whole thing _boring and ineffective_ after an escape from the Castle, but Constantin was noted as a bigger drunk than usual in the family and prone to exaggeration.

The charges kept ringing in Mircea’s mind as he tried to focus on the task at hand. _Find the Morning Star,_ too quickly became, _Abandonment of duties. Failure to be loyal to the Church._

The call for a crusade. Vlad III had reacted favorably to the idea three years ago, excited for the Holy Father’s excuse to destroy the Ottomans. A number of boyars had gathered at Andrei Ursu’s home to discuss the matter, seated around a great oak dining table with a feast before them. Oh, there had been other things to discuss, but the Crusade was at the heart of the matter.

_Andrei directed the conversation. “So Belmont! Your family did their fair share of attacking infidels before they even moved into Wallachia. What say you about the Voivode’s support for a new crusade?”_

_“Hm?” Mircea looked up from his side conversation with Matei about new walls to delineate where their borders were. The issue was not enough rocks and the recent trampling of a field by a pack of wolves (werewolves technically, but Matei didn’t have to know that) on both their sides. “Oh.” He didn’t quite deflate when he realized the question, but the distaste was impossible to disguise. “_ That. _”_

_“Try again, but don’t include Vlad in it!” came the cheerful and deeply drunk voice of Petru Albastru. “Anything involving the Drăculești is asking for a contrarian’s answer!”_

_Another laugh chimed in from across the table. “Aye. Remember how Vasile Belmont broke a chair into a stake when he heard someone call Vlad’s father_ Dracul _and ran for the nearest window?”_

 _“Ugh,” Andrei groaned. “Yes, because he_ leapt through the window _that’s right behind me and my father had to sue for money to replace it!”_

_“If I recall though, that was the only thing he broke,” Matei cut in._

_Mircea smiled at that, pausing just long enough to wipe a strand of brown hair out of his way. “We all learn to leap out of windows without breaking bones at an early age,” he said, aiming for drier humor. “Can’t tell you the specifics though; family secret.”_

_The topic turned from there, but Mircea noted the lingering frown on Andrei’s mouth in that moment. He had never hidden his support of the Drăculești, nor his distaste for the Ottomans. Anything that combined the two and provided an excuse for violence was a blessing in Andrei’s mind. He was a skilled field commander now._

Mircea turned a corner, knowing he had the right set of shelves. This was a frequently used section, with little dust clinging to the books and a few boxes along the bottom. The one for the Morning Star was unique and--

\--and staring right at him. Immediately, Mircea knelt down and went about opening the thing. He had only done it once before, when the body of his father returned home with a gouged neck and the Morning Star wrapped around it to try and ward off Dracula’s honor guard. They had been moving on the Danube to....well. No one knew at the time, and the truth of it had died with Vasile. The Danube had remained untouched since.

 _Vasile. Not the tallest Belmont born, but one with the rare blond hair of Leon and the source of Mircea’s own intensely blue eyes. (All of his children save Trevor had their mother’s green eyes instead.) What Vasile lacked in stature he made up for with a stern figure that cut through what he called_ boyar bullshit _and struck fear into the night world. More than any Belmont in the last five generations before him, he took the crusade against darkness seriously and was feared for it. Any wooden object within reach could be a stake at a moment’s notice. Every piece of metal upon his person was pure silver, and there were always flasks of holy water at his side. His gait was heavy, suffused with purpose, and as grey flecked his hair and beard, Vasile’s figure became even more terrifying._

_He was a man made to hunt monsters. He was not a man made for politics, where his stern nature and bluntness invited no friendships. He never wore fine clothing, even when receiving guests, and had to be wrestled into even letting men in to discuss business other than night work._

_Mircea was ten when he witnessed that fact for himself. Ștefan’s death meant he was the only boy in the family still alive, and that it would fall to him to act as the next boyar when his father died. When Vasile sat in the Great Hall receiving visitors, Mircea sat beside him, absorbing everything he could. How his father sat just so with the fire roaring behind him, dressed in black trousers and a simple shirt, dyed a light grey. Deliberate gestures made to unnerve others he met with. The way chairs were arranged in a haphazard semi-circle, with some pushed a few inches inwards and others held back. It suggested a recognition of hierarchy, but no particular care for the specifics. The semi-circle was a powerful tool in Vasile Belmont’s hands._

_“Surely you understand the importance of what we’re trying to accomplish, Vasile.”_

_Vasile gave a gruff, disapproving grunt to the group’s apparent leader, some boyar named Theodrick. “Supporting Radu II, yes. Who will doubtlessly do something massively dumb, fuck up the country further, and speed along the Ottomans’ work to turn Wallachia into a vassal state.”_

_Another man frowned. “You care so little for your countrymen, Vasile?”_

_“For you, no,” Vasile said with an inelegant shrug. He crossed his legs, the wear of his boots on display for all to see. He could afford new ones, he just never bothered. “How many times has Wallachia dealt with this, hm? One term it’s Dănești, the next it’s Drăculești, and the trade-off continues because the boyars run from one end of a scale to the other as it suits their petty needs. How’s your obști, Radu? Good harvest this year?”_

_Radu Grădișten scowled in response. “You know my landers suffered this year, Vasile.”_

_“Because you’re fucking around with this group instead of paying attention to your people. Now we’ll help because we’re good neighbors and because Matei needs to inherit land and not a dust pile, but I’m putting a condition on it: stop coming to me every five months because the Voivode was wrong about something in a public declaration and must be overthrown.”_

_There was a scoff from Theodrick. “And what, leave you with your monsters?”_

_“Ideally.”_

_“We apologize for wasting your time, Vasile,” Theodrick said with a heaviness that meant,_ I’m so disappointed in you. _It was a servant that saw the group out, leaving Vasile happy to reach over for a map that sat besides his chair instead. It showed all of Wallachia, broken into the domains of all the boyars. The words Dănești, Drăculești, and ??? were marked. Dark splotches marked recent sightings of Dracula._

_“Mircea, is the rain cleared up?”_

_“I think?” Mircea had engrossed himself in the proceedings, blocking out all other things. Observation was the only way his father instructed when it came to dealing with boyars. Never individualized lessons. No assigned books on Wallachian law. Only the chance to watch Vasile be rude to nearly every nobleman who dared to speak about something other than Dracula._

_“Get your whip and meet me at the path to the woods. And thick boots, Mircea. It’ll be muddy.”_

Muddy _was an understatement. The woods had become a swamp in the heavy rain, and the large fake beast that his father had cobbled together from fallen trees stood in the worst of it. Both of them were caked in muck by nightfall, and greeted by an unhappy group of servants who would have to clean the garments - never mind Mircea’s mother who was beside herself with the mess and the level of risk._

Mircea picked up the Morning Star, and felt his arm threaten to fall to one side. It was all metal. It had a soul inside of it. It was a weapon made of loss, and now it’d see another. So long as it _kept_ seeing losses, that was all that mattered.

Mircea rose with the chain in hand. “Traveling case,” he murmured, eyes focused on the lower shelves. “It has a separate traveling case, where is--”

“Next shelf, other side,” came a female voice. It was young and sharp and belonged to Ioanna, who stood behind her father with the notice of excommunication in hand. “We’re onto 548? You left this on the index, so I assume I have to catalog it.”

One of the great Belmont traits passed down the generations was the stare that immediately measured up a man or beast and cut them down to size. To be on the receiving end of it was always unpleasant, and Mircea knew how ridiculous this all looked from the outside. A seventeen-year-old girl dressed like a boy with trousers and light red tunic, waving a papal excommunication around while her father, dressed in heavy boots and thick trousers that contrasted with an ornate blue robe and its many embellishments suited to his part as a boyar among his fellows, stood there holding an ancestral whip. It wasn’t even ridiculous, it was just _stupid._

He opened his mouth, but Ioanna simply held up a hand. “548 involves not telling anyone about the situation, excuse understood. I won’t tell Trevor or anyone else. Do you want help with the packing list or not?”

“--Yes. It’ll take less time.”

The list took all of two hours to assemble, working together. As the Hold’s current manager and the one Belmont who had a memory to rival the Speakers, Ioanna knew where everything was, and kept bringing item after item out. It was like when one of the hounds brought in a kill, looking proud as anything that they found the rabbit or bird or deer, but Ioanna had no need of praise. Her body language had the same set sternness as Mircea remembered his father having, and perhaps that was the right attitude. Nose to the grindstone to get everything done and escape before anything else could happen. No wondering about how it came to this. Only a focus on the present and the immediate future.

Packing it all was an exercise in perfect spacing, and Mircea knew he had the right spatial skills for it. He left Ioanna to stand at the index writing down the new information about the notice of excommunication. Working in silence was ideal right now, and eventually everything was forced into two trunks. They were left by the entrance so that they could be fetched at a moment’s notice. The Morning Star though, that would be left lower in the Hold. Hidden but in an obvious place to family members, in case a mob breached even this far down. Leon Belmont’s greatest weapon could not fall into the wrong hands.

Once they emerged from the Hold, both Mircea and Ioanna went about the evening’s business as normal. Ioanna seated herself beside one of the fireplaces with a book about Dracula’s castle she needed to review. Mircea went to the room that served as his office and penned correspondence. Business as usual, no hint of something awry. Dinner was served, and Trevor happily regaled all present with his tale of hunting that evening’s venison. Mircea smiled wryly at the energy of the story, ignoring the little Belmont part of his brain that murmured approvingly of his son’s tracking skills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you to [penitence_road ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penitence_road/pseuds/penitence_road) for the extensive editing she provided through the various drafts of this piece. There were quite a few versions, and balancing pacing, historical information, and characterization were all important. She excelled with every element, and I cannot thank her enough for her assistance and patience. 
> 
> To put it bluntly: I am not a historian with a focus on Wallachia. I do not have a college library with access to secondary works at present, and as such am aware that there are likely inaccuracies and mistakes made in trying to paint a general portrait of 1460s Wallachia and its class system. What I am is an archivist with a deep and abiding interest in how the historical period that the Netflix anime is set in impacts the series.
> 
> The 1400s was an incredibly chaotic time period for Wallachia, especially as the Ottoman Empire began to coalesce and rise. By the 1450s you had Vlad III waging war against Sultan Mehmed II, and the infamous Night Attack at Târgoviște. This is something that happened in living memory of the _entire cast_. The fate of the Belmonts means that Trevor would have been trying to survive in a country at war against a military that won Istanbul from Byzantium in extremely recent history. This cannot be emphasized enough in his characterization and backstory as it appears in the Netflix series.
> 
> Wallachia’s hierarchy is also only vaguely ever referred to in the series, but especially important for Trevor. While season one mentions _great houses_ , there’s no real elaboration. However, it is likely that the Belmonts were of the _boyar_ class, given how early Leon Belmont arrived in Wallachia. Establishing the family as landed gentry with administrative elements feels perfectly natural. Boyars with no administrative function or military duties were known as _mazil._ The lands were known as individual [obște](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ob%C8%99te), (obști is the plural) and I had to stop there before I fell into a big research hole about what happened with the transformation of the system into serfdom.
> 
> Back to Wallachia being chaotic. Boyars often conflicted with each other, and were plotting types as the Voivode was actually elected from various princes in the House of Basarab by the boyars. There was extremely high turnover in the 1400s, leading to additional instability. Given this level of shenanigans, it is reasonable to suspect that politics played a large part in the Belmonts falling from grace as they did. Ignore the political for only the night world, or be too comfortable, and only one thing can happen.
> 
> Wallachia was Catholic(ish) at the time, thanks to the Council of Florence in 1439 which saw the reconciliation of the Romanian Church with Rome. Given Castlevania, it’s fair to assume the Belmonts were always firmly tied with the Roman Catholic Church for most of their history within Wallachia.
> 
> Age-wise, the Night Attack being in 1462 puts about 14 years difference between the events of canon and the historical event. If Trevor’s in his mid- to late-twenties by the start of things, being around ten to twelve years old checks out.
> 
> Personally, I want season four to have the Ottomans (who at this point had generally subdued Wallachia as a vassal state, Radu the Handsome was Voivode in 1475/the year of Lisa’s murder and followed by Basarab the Old) and the Wallachian nobility acknowledge the impact of Dracula’s actions on the land and how it has generally been perceived. That the Ottomans wouldn’t take advantage of the chaos to hold their new domain is highly unlikely, and the night world of Wallachia doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
> 
> Also, so far as names go - several are Roman or Byzantine, as I was quickly struggling to place appropriate medieval era Wallachian names. Which is ridiculous given that the franchise has never dwelled on this fact but hey. It matters to me.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a scholar of medieval Romanian history or socio-economics. However, the Belmonts were likely boyars during one of the most chaotic times of Wallachia's history, and it doubtlessly factored into their excommunication and fall from grace. Please see the end of the work for further notes.

To be a boyar was not only to have land and serfs that lived on it. To be a boyar was to administer to Wallachia’s needs. Military commanders. Administrators. Taxation specialists. Men who lived in the sphere of the Voivodes. Men who elected them, and men whose political ambitions meant gambling so much of the nation. Otherwise one was only a mazil, _din os boieresc_ , of boyar bones, and unable to have a true stake in Wallachia’s future.

So far as Mircea knew, he still had that particular stake. No word had come from Vlad III that stripped the Belmonts of their rank and lands in the past two weeks, and thanks to the forest of impaled bodies at Târgoviște meant to drive back the Ottomans, it was likely that Mircea had a few more weeks of that being true.

It was a risk, going to court in order to see to administrative matters. Alexandra reminded him of that on the morning Mircea left, frowning at her husband’s insistence that he go by horse rather than carriage, and carry so little.

“Of all the places you could be going, you want to walk into a place that could put you in direct confrontation with the Voivode?” she asked. The two were on the front steps of the Belmont estate, waiting for their children to appear. 

Mircea nodded. “I do. You’ve started to seed the rumor mill here; I need to do the same at court and to make sure there are enough contingencies in place. All my official robes of office are there; don’t worry about me failing to look the part.”

“This is too delicate a time to be away from home, Mircea. We’ve discussed this, _and_ you have a broken arm.”

“And too critical a time to not be around other boyars to make sure that Trevor’s and Ioanna’s futures are secured no matter what.”

Alexandra didn’t respond to that. There was only a brief look of concession in her eyes, timed with the appearance of Trevor, Ioanna, and their two elder sisters, Mioara and Irina, who were home for the summer so that their young children could spend time with their grandparents. Hugs and well-wishes saw Mircea off, and the ride to court was blissfully uneventful.

The four days of travel offered Mircea enough time to strategize, and to absorb the news as the rest of Wallachia saw it. _Ah yeah, those weird Belmonts pissed off the church. Always said they had some kind of witchy vibe._ The Sultan himself gagged at the sight! It was like a forest. _They’re saying 20,000 dead Turks. Where did he get that many bodies?_ A war like this just means more damn taxes. _Clearly this is the work of the devil. An excommunication, a forest of the dead, and Ottoman demons at our door?_

Mircea’s administrative functions were entirely based on the harvest. He tracked the production of wheat and other crops in Wallachia, noted surpluses and deficiencies, argued with his fellow boyars about distribution to regions in need, and then glared impassively at the involved parties when the whole thing became a pissing contest about some personal slight. It was often seasonal work that began in July and continued until February, and then saw a brief respite. 

His office door was always kept open when Mircea was in court and working. The room was small and sparsely furnished, featuring a few out-of-date chairs and a plain table brought from the Belmont estate by Mircea’s grandfather. The simplicity suited the size of the room and general regard for the office - nothing especially important, just a required function of running the country. Too concerned with the well-being of peasants, really. The most elaborate thing in the office was Mircea himself, whose court dress consisted of a fine silk tunic in a gentle off white with golden embroidery in abstract patterns. It was light enough for the summer months, and easy to layer furs over as the winter crept in.

The chair really did need a cushion, though. It wasn’t the most brilliant thought that Mircea had as he sat in the room and began to leaf through a small pile of reports that focused on what the military needed to feed those fighting the Ottomans, but it occurred all the same. Pointless, as he was only spending a day here.

A knock against the open door sounded. Mircea picked his head up, and then blinked once in surprise. “Andrei, hello.”

“I was told you were here, but I didn’t believe it,” was the response. Andrei needed no invitation to come in, he simply swept in with his dark red court robes swishing behind him. The fur trim was absolutely and perhaps foolishly excessive for June, but Mircea kept that thought to himself.

“Your presence here is a surprise as well. I’d have expected you out commanding against the Sultan.”

Andrei smiled at that - genuinely smiled - revealing a few newly missing teeth. “Strategy meeting tomorrow and we’ve had to block a number of our roads to the south and east. It’s been hell against them, it really has. Still, it’s only June. You’re _early._ ”

“My reports start coming in around this time, and we need to make sure that those fighting the Ottomans can do so on full stomachs,” Mircea replied smoothly. “Are you going to sit?”

A single hand waved off the suggestion. “Mm, and this has nothing to do with seeing where the Voivode stands with recent Belmont events?”

“ _Should_ the Voivode have to make decisions about recent Belmont events, he’d benefit from remembering that this office is essential right now and--”

“You’re actually playing politics,” Andrei concluded. It went so well with his graceful lean against the doorway. “Oh, don’t give me the dead-eyed stare, Mircea. There’s no such thing as a subtle Belmont. By the way, what’s with the arm?”

“Wolf attack; had to deal with it. And I’ll give you the point about being subtle,” Mircea said. There was no getting Andrei to sit, and to be behind his desk felt wrong. He shuffled the reports instead, then stood up. “So tell me what you think I’m going to ask.”

Andrei wasted no time in stroking his beard, pretending that the question was difficult. “Well, ioanna’s still unwed, so you’ll absolutely be seeking to deal with that, although who wants an excommunicated wife? Your older two are married and even if they’re denied the sacrament, one can argue that they’re not involved in your family’s witchcraft by virtue of no longer being under your roof. Alexandra’s going to retreat to her family to isolate you and buy you wiggle room for an argument about the matter applying only to the men in your family, which leaves your son. You can die fighting this excommunication; _he_ needs a future and Matei’s status in court is roughly the same as yours - totally unimportant. Certainly not enough to ensure your boy’s safety and status. Am I wrong about any of this?”

“As you said,” Mircea replied. “There’s no such thing as a subtle Belmont. I forgot what an astute study you are.”

“It isn’t a matter of study, Mircea,” Andrei said, folding his arms over his chest. “I’m active and involved in the court. Your family’s interest has waned for decades.”

It was improper to offer a defense. Clarification wouldn’t help him. Mircea felt his tongue slip regardless. “Since politics became too tied to rivalry between the Drăculeşti and Dăneşti. And not only because of the name.”

“Mmm, by the way, how would your father be handling the impalement thing right now?”

A very hollow sort of laugh came out of Mircea’s throat. “My father would have been offended at the thought of paying taxes to a man who used the name Dracula and been spiteful at every opportunity. After hearing about 20,000 impaled corpses? The Voivode would've been assassinated and my House would be in a different sort of trouble.”

Andrei unfolded his arms at that, laughing before straightening up. “You just won me a bet, Mircea. Your son’s fucked, by the way.”

“Then what was the point of--” Mircea snapped, but Andrei had already excused himself and started down the hall at a clip. Andrei had never forgotten the lack of support for a crusade. Rubbing everything in Mircea’s face felt well, correct.

Mircea swore softly to himself, and cast a glance back at his desk. It was going to be a place Trevor hated. His boy was not one for paperwork and administration, never had been. He was happiest helping train the hounds to hunt night creatures. Practicing with the whip. Going on a hunt, even if he got in trouble for it.

_They had done so just a few days before, thanks to a report of_ something large destroying barns _that had come from one of the obște residents when Alexandra approached him. Well, grabbed his shoulder roughly and pulled him into the next room._

_“You can’t go out,” she hissed, not raising her voice above a whisper. “You’ll feed the new rumors.”_

_Alexandra married into the Belmonts unaware of the centuries-old war with Dracula and the night world. She _had_ married into the Belmonts knowing that she would be the one to manage the family reputation. All rumors came to her first through a network of fellow noblewomen, some from visits, others from correspondence. Essential information, just as the Belmont network about Dracula’s movements was essential information._

_Mircea’s raised eyebrows meant he wanted her to continue._

_“They’re spreading the word about the excommunication, with a focus on the witchcraft angle.”_

_“That’s an old accusation.”_

_“One that could be shrugged off except for the fact that it’s clearly from the pope himself. Hunting will make it look like you don’t care--”_

_“--which is true--”_

_Alexandra glared. “--and make things harder in the long run. You sound like your father.”_

_“We can’t not go and look into it,” Mircea countered in a terse whisper. “We’ll only respond_ if _we’re attacked first.”_

_“_ Mircea! _” Alexandra’s volume threatened to rise, drawing unwanted attention from servants._

_“We’re obligated to look after the land and its people!”_

_Alexandra’s disgusted sigh meant she knew better than to press, but really, really hated where this was going. “_ Fine! _”_

_It was also the kind of declaration of_ Fine! _that meant whoever didn’t say the word was the one who had to leave the room, so Mircea did just that. He stepped out into the corridor and began the walk to the stables, pausing just long enough to ask a passing servant to find Trevor and have him go to the stables as well._

_The Belmonts kept ten horses in total - four for quick journeys, two for carriage-pulling, and two for work and to loan out when needed. Alongside them in the stables were the hounds that were always,_ always _seen to by members of the Belmont family rather than servants. Sleek, alert dogs capable of shocking speed, they were meant to hunt the things of the night world too, and had been a family tradition since the foundations of the home were first laid. (Some family documents implied that Leon’s direct children were just dog people.)_

_A happy chorus of barks greeted Mircea as he walked into the stable, his scent well known to the current pack._

_“No hunting for you today,” he replied, knowing those words wouldn’t prevent the half dozen hounds from scrambling over to demand attention and treats. Mircea extended his left hand down to distribute the former. “Tonight’s quarry doesn’t need to waste your time.”_

_Two pats each, and then to the task of gearing up for night work. It took time for word to reach Trevor that he was needed in the stables, and Mircea knew his son. He’d be running around his mess of a bedroom gathering the right boots (thick, warm) and coat (black wool,_ no cloaks, _cloaks catch on branches) and all the right weapons (knives, short sword, whip) because until he was of age, Trevor wasn’t allowed to walk around with weapons secured on his person while in the house._

_“I’m here!” Trevor called out. It was ten minutes later, and he ran in with an excited madness to him, nearly tripping over one of the dogs as he rounded the corner. The dog let out a whine, but no apology was given. Trevor just dashed over to the stall for his horse. “I was on the opposite side of the house and had to get everything too. What are we hunting tonight? And that wasn’t an excuse, that was an explanation!”_

_Mircea said nothing in response to his son’s defense at first. He watched Trevor tear the stall door open, pause, then register that his horse was not present. Only then did he turn, acknowledging that his horse was saddled and ready for departure, and that Mircea was atop his own steed and waiting._

_“--Oh,” Trevor wilted, the wild abandon of being late for something important replaced with embarrassment. “Thank you, I thought you’d make me do all the work myself.”_

_“By fortune, it’s more important to finish tonight’s hunt than it is for you to improve the speed of getting gear on your horse,” Mircea said. His tone was the same stern tone he always used for Trevor on these occasions. “We have reports of a beast that has smashed three barns and eaten the livestock within, and it usually attacks right after dusk or before dawn.”_

_“Bat-blooded,” Trevor murmured, hopping up onto his horse. “And big. Is the smashing from above?”_

_Mircea nodded, acknowledging that Trevor was correct. “No reports of flight so far. Ready?”_

_“Lead on.”_

_The stable doors opened, and the late sun of a June day greeted them both. Orange glowed in the sky, and the scent of warm grass and the faint musk of the horses made the whole thing feel like a lark of a ride, rather than a somber hunt._

_“Where were the tracks last seen?” Trevor asked after the grounds of the Belmont estate were long behind them, but no destination had seemed to present itself._

_Mircea offered the precise distance, then clarified, “We’re going to the next barn to the west; it’ll be more likely to strike there.”_

_“Understood!”_

_The orange in the sky faded. Became a gentle glowing purple, while the thunder of horse hooves mixed with the chirps of birds and buzz of bugs who made summer their season. Trevor said nothing, nor did Mircea. Silence was important in the moments before a hunt began. It gave the situation the correct gravity. This work was sacred in its way, and it was for the people of Wallachia. Hunts deserved gravity._

_Dusk settled. The barn came into view, and Trevor frowned. “Not enough time to get a look at the land. Crap.”_

_“Language,” Mircea reminded his son, urging his horse onwards. The owners of the barn and the home beside it had been instructed to stay with others tonight and--_

_\--and a horrible noise came from just north of the barn. The strangled cry of some livestock, and Mircea looked to his son for an instant. No flinching. No recoiling. Just a hard face and hands already reaching for a whip._

_“I’ll go east on foot; if you come around west you can try and herd it towards me or attack from the rear as seems best,” Trevor concluded, hopping off his horse. “I know your horse doesn’t startle much. Time’s against us.”_

_“It is,” Mircea agreed. Dusk was becoming _dark_ , and human eyes could only see so much in such circumstances._

_With nothing to discuss and Trevor already running eastward with whip out, Mircea urged his horse onward. It hadn’t been his intent to put Trevor in charge of the hunt, not after the discussion with Alexandra, but it was hard to argue with a Belmont_ that _determined and serious._

_A new night creature greeted Mircea when he finally moved around to the other side of the barn. With the height of a house, the bastard chimera boasted a lion’s body and a bat’s head, along with dark brown fur that blended into the night - save the blood on its mouth from a recently mauled cow. The thing’s ears twitched as the horse approached, but there was no time to react. Something had smacked into the thing from the other side, and the hiss and sizzle of flesh filled the air._

_In response, the beast let out another roar - one that began with a lion’s cry and ended with a high shriek that threatened eardrums. A warning, one that Trevor responded to by flicking the whip again, and making sure it wrapped around the thing’s front paw._

_All at once, the beast lunged, and Mircea fought the urge that_ every _hunt brought for every generation of Belmont: to dive in and drag away the other person involved, rather than focus on the creature itself. It was instinct. It always would be._

_Instead Mircea drew his sword, kicking his horse into a full gallop. This was easy: he’d go for the side, distracting the beast. Trevor would know to use his whip to get the thing’s front paws bound, and then slide under the belly to stab the thing in the chest. As new as the monster was to both of them, the overall shape was familiar and well-documented in the family bestiary._

_Blade sank into flesh, and Mircea felt blood spurt onto his forearm as he dragged the sword lengthwise across the creature. The thing made noise as it was always going to, and a large paw moved to swipe at Mircea._

_It never connected. The grunt from Trevor told Mircea that he had calculated his son’s understanding of the situation correctly - although the grunt was too loud. It shouldn’t have been heard in the heat of battle._

_“I need you to grab the whip!” Trevor yelled, timing it just before the creature let out another cry. “The fore-paws are stronger than I thought!”_

_Mircea didn’t reply. He kicked his horse forward, riding parallel to the beast. It was a risky thing to do, to have it not in full view, but it was more important to finish the job. There was no time to slow the gallop either, there was only passing by Trevor, catching the tossed handle of the whip, and then continuing the motion in order to maintain tension on the weapon._

_The youngest Belmont was out of sight now, allowing Mircea to focus on the beast again. Yes, it did have thick muscles on its front legs. A fact made all the more obvious as it reared up on its hind ones, the tied front legs now in the air and Mircea dragged along with them._

_Easy enough to deal with. Mircea knew how to dismount the horse in this way, and so he did. It meant swinging from the length of the whip, still holding it tight. Keeping paws from swatting at Trevor, who now had sunk a short sword in between two of the ribs on the creature. A creature that now truly thrashed, sending Trevor off in one direction and swinging Mircea in the other._

_The sound of impact was familiar, as was the sound of crunching bone. What was unfamiliar was the pain of a broken bone, as Mircea hadn’t had such a thing happen since he was young. His soft hiss of pain was drowned by the agonized wailing of the night creature. Mircea let go of the whip still in his hands, knowing that the rest would solve itself. A minute passed, and the thing was silenced._

_Only then did Mircea sit up. Trevor was carefully removing the whip from the dead thing’s front paws, covered in more blood than expected. Mircea’s eyes followed the trail of blood to the thing’s throat, which was acceptable enough. A quick kill. Limited agony. But Trevor’s movements were slower than they should have been, and_ that _was a problem._

_Mircea knew he’d be heard from this distance. As an experiment, he pushed up off the ground with both arms. The pain was manageable. “Injury report?”_

_“Claw sideswipe,” was the response. It was professional and pointed, as good as any Belmont could give. “Should last the ride but I need the kit.”_

_“Go see to it,” Mircea instructed his son, walking over carefully. He anticipated the thing to have muscle spasms for a few moments longer. “I’ll attend to the rest.”_

_For a moment, Trevor opened his mouth to protest. His whip in one hand, other going for the knife to take a sample back for the Hold, the shine of something holy peeking out of one of the pockets of his trousers to consecrate the ground, all stood in sharp contrast to the blood on him. He was a perfect picture of a Belmont. But the tear in his trousers was large, even in the low lighting, and since there were two of them there, safety could be the priority._

_Trevor sighed. “Understood. Your arm’s looking--”_

_“Broken,” Mircea confirmed. “It can survive the ride. Go, get that covered.”_

_Only rarely did Trevor do as he was told the first time without protest, and those moments almost always involved injuries. Mircea finished consecrating the ground and taking the samples just in time to see his son packing the kit away, most of the left trouser leg gone now and off-white cloth wrapped around Trevor’s upper thigh._

_“You’re good to ride?” Mircea asked, finally letting a hint of concern in color his voice. It wouldn’t be long until blood began to color the bandages._

_“I don’t get to decide. We have to go,” Trevor said, frowning slightly in response. Like it was the correct answer but it still felt wrong. His eyes moved to his horse. “...I think I need help up, though.”_

_“Go on the other side of your horse, then; it’ll be easier to mount on your good leg. If something goes wrong en route home, you_ must _inform me, am I understood?”_

_Silence followed the two all the way home. There were the occasional noises of discomfort when one horse or the other went too fast, but Trevor never asked to stop and Mircea gritted his teeth. The jostle of galloping hurt, but it was perfectly survivable. Every time he glanced behind them, he swore Trevor’s bandages were stained a deeper red._

_Once the two entered the stables again, noise returned. Barking hounds at first, the greetings of the stablehand who was anticipating their return so that he could call it a night. The soft mutter of_ crap _from Trevor as he dismounted and the bandages all fell away, revealing a leg covered in dried blood._

_He followed it up with a concerned_ oh _once candlelight showed the extent, and then, “Mother’s going to have an opinion about this, isn’t she?”_

_“...She is, yes,” Mircea said, eyes not moving from the wound. The claw had gouged half of Trevor’s thigh, and it was a small miracle that he hadn’t fallen over yet. It had to be a shallow cut, was the only explanation. “And myself.”_

_It took three steps into the house for Alexandra to find them both. Her eyes didn’t land on theirs, only on Trevor’s injury._

_“_ Really _, Mircea?” she sighed, before scooping Trevor up in one fell swoop._

_All of Trevor’s dignity left, and he was quick to struggle against the idea that any twelve-year-old boy should be carried like a princess. “--_ Hey! _I rode back here like this, I can do some stairs and corridors, I can--”_

_Mircea only inclined his head. “Really.”_

_“Office. After--_ Trevor Belmont if you don’t stop right now _\--”_

_Mircea didn’t hear how it ended. He didn’t have to - he knew. Trevor would insist that he was fine while his injury was seen to, and Alexandra would restrict his movements for recovery reasons. Neither of them would be offered dinner because it would be stone cold by now, and Alexandra would point out that neither of them deserved it after_ this fresh bullshit.

Now there was a thought. Mircea walked back over to his desk and sat down, reaching for a fresh sheet of paper. Bullshit was the only word his father used for politics. It was bullshit posturing and bullshitting each other. A con game that used Wallachia’s people as fodder with no real care for their safety or Wallachia’s future. It was only ever about the immediate present, and fucking over those who you had personal hatred for.

The next part came easy. Over the years Mircea had developed formulas for crop yields and the impact on the populace to get through the late fall through early spring, along with an extra one for military needs. He didn’t know the exact number of soldiers currently at war, but he didn’t need to. Everything was a matter of projection, and _that_ meant multiple scenarios. More time to talk. More time to bullshit.

More time at court. At least an overnight stay. It was the last thing Mircea wanted, but he didn’t get the luxury of doing things he _wanted_ at the moment. There was only need. Need and cold, hard numbers that were now staring up at him.

“That’ll do,” Mircea said to the page. With that, he stood up, gathered the page with his final numbers along with all the projected calculation math, and walked out his office door. He knew who to talk to next, and the fact it would irritate Andrei was both deeply satisfying and an absolute disappointment to Vasile’s memory.

The Curtea Domnească which housed the court was not a small complex by any means. Learning it took time, and it was one of the things that Mircea now knew that Trevor would have to adapt to on his own. He had had to do much the same, as Vasile never so much as took Mircea to court, instead insisting Mircea just go alone and take care of business. It was one of Mircea’s least-favorite learning experiences, and gave many younger boyars means of teasing him for the first few years he held his administrative position.

Mircea went down the corridors until he entered the room reserved for war. Tapestries of Wallachia’s past glories hung against every wall, and in them were old Belmonts who were shown as having particular zeal for the fantastical beasts depicted. They were meant to represent Wallachia’s enemies of course, but Mircea knew better. The horrid bat-winged beasts weren’t metaphors.

A map of Wallachia itself sat on a large table in the center of the room. A few scattered objects meant to represent troops were placed atop it, and only one other man was in the room: Vintilă Văcărescu. One of Vlad III’s advisors, and generally seen as a man of reason. A military man by upbringing and desire, whose dislike of the Ottomans was tempered in contrast to the Voivode’s own. He wore his beard short, brown hair long, kept his light green court clothes immaculate, and was never seen without the tall hat that signified his office, even at the height of summer. The black eye he sported somehow enhanced rather than diminished the stately aurora he projected.

“Ah, Belmont,” he said, not looking up from the map. “I heard you were here.”

“I always forget how quickly news travels here. You’re well, Vintilă?”

“By the grace of God,” Vintilă replied. “I see you’ve taken a knock.”

“No harsher than yours. May I approach you on matters that will inform this map?”

Vintilă nodded, gesturing Mircea over toward his side of the table. “We’ll need whatever we can get for now. Only God knows how Mehmed will respond to the Voivode’s attack.”

“I don’t envy your work right now.”

Mircea wasted no time in walking to Vintilă’s side, offering him the top sheet of paper with all final harvest projections and percentages towards the military written on it. “If summer continues as it has for the past five years, the strain on the food supply won’t really kick in until February. But I am also assuming that we are not using our farmland for battles. The number next to it is what happens if we do at five percent, and the one besides that at 10.”

Vintilă said nothing. His eyes focused on the paper, reading everything carefully. A nod happened. The occasional _hm._ Then a sigh. 

“There’s no way to ensure that, you know.”

Mircea stood still. “I am aware, just as I am aware that this war carries an element of the personal for the Voivode. But the numbers might inform a deterrent. Even if it just means using less land, or fields we know have to be fallow for the year.”

“Limiting fields like that would be impossible, Mircea,” Vintilă said, eyes moving back to the map of Wallachia. “But this is good information to have. If I gave you hypothetical percentages of destroyed lands in various regions, would you be capable of putting together plans for a lean winter?”

“Yes. But I can’t stay more than overnight. There are matters at the estate that require my attention.”

Vintilă let out a soft noise. A snort? A laugh? Something more concerned? It was impossible to tell. Vintilă made it a matter of pride to be hard to read. “I’ve heard. You don’t have many personal items here, do you, Belmont?”

“The few things that reside here will be coming home with me.”

“Wise,” Vintilă said. “You’ll have to go to Rome at some point, I think.”

“So long as I can get out of Wallachia. Do you imagine that there will be open spaces for strategists soon, Vintilă?”

“For the field? Perhaps, although if they are no longer of rank, they’ll have to be placed just so.”

Mircea’s eyes joined Vintilă’s on the map. Wallachia might be too fast east for most of Europe, but there was a beauty to it. The way the Carpathians rose up out of the ground and seemed to reach heaven itself. How the fields were endlessly green in the summer, and the forests felt older than the Romans. To have a piece of such a place was a blessing. Made fighting Dracula and all it entailed worth it.

“Just so,” he repeated. “And away from Andrei, at least to start with. A new surname won’t change what one inherits from their parents. He’ll need papers, yes?”

“You’ll have them when you give me your reports tomorrow,” Vintilă said. “You’ll receive a notice of the Voivode’s decision on how he’ll handle the matter a day before a messenger arrives with the formal declaration. It should give you enough time for whatever your additional plans are.”

“I feel that if someone figures out that the Ottoman devils have bought time for us, the Church’s accusation will only be stronger.”

At that, an actual laugh sounded from Vintilă. It was soft and light, but there was real delight in it. “I’ll say nothing of it.”

“Thank you, Vintilă,” Mircea replied. “He’ll be terrible at reports like this, by the way.”

Vintilă only shrugged. “It must skip a generation. Be up with the sun, Belmont.”

Mircea stepped away from Vintilă and his map, pausing at the door to offer a bow. It wasn’t expected or a part of formalities, but it felt correct given what had been offered. There was no true means to show his appreciation, but this would have to do.

The idea of being up with the sun meant only one thing: an all nighter. A thing that came naturally to all Belmonts given the nature of their work, and something that would allow Mircea to get moving as quickly as he could once he was done. The thought of how to section the report occupied Mircea’s mind all the way back to his tiny, bare office and once he got there, everything was fully formed. Everything else was a matter of calculations and putting ink to page.

He settled back to his horrible and uncomfortable chair, reaching for a scrap of old cotton rag paper. It had old crossed out calculations on it, but there was still room for fresh math. Mircea would only reach for fresh sheets when he wrote the actual report.

Lost in numbers, Mircea knew that this would be the last time he’d author a report like this. Even if the excommunication was repealed, he himself would no longer be the head of the House of Belmont. It would be Trevor, and Trevor’s attitude towards authority would not see him keep this sort of post. His strategic mind would be wanted for the military, and the hierarchy of that world would chafe against his son’s, well, everything.

Ioanna would be perfect for the job in truth, as cataloging and accounting for space was her calling. Mioara might manage, although her mind was far better suited for finance. When she was young, her mother had instructed her on how to balance household accounts on the rare occasion Mioara could be pried from the Hold, and she had taken to the matter like a duck to water. Her husband’s lands along the Danube had flourished since they wed, and it was in no small thanks to her financial instincts. Irina, no. She learned of the night world, Dracula, and how to defend herself against the things that always came for Belmonts, but had no true interest in any of it. When she had married she was all but glowing, and having two sons to wrangle made her the happiest that any of her family had seen her. 

Somewhere around one in the morning, Mircea’s hand cramped. It whined, protested from all of the writing, and declared itself _done_ , thank you. Mircea forced it through two more paragraphs so that the report might also be done, and he left the matter at that. A few hours of sleep were welcome indeed, and---

\--and the warm glow of sunrise entered the office. Mircea made no sound as he sleepily realized this simple fact. He simply continued the work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you to [penitence_road ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penitence_road/pseuds/penitence_road) for the extensive editing she provided through the various drafts of this piece. There were quite a few versions, and balancing pacing, historical information, and characterization were all important. She excelled with every element, and I cannot thank her enough for her assistance and patience. 
> 
> To put it bluntly: I am not a historian with a focus on Wallachia. I do not have a college library with access to secondary works at present, and as such am aware that there are likely inaccuracies and mistakes made in trying to paint a general portrait of 1460s Wallachia and its class system. What I am is an archivist with a deep and abiding interest in how the historical period that the Netflix anime is set in impacts the series.
> 
> The 1400s was an incredibly chaotic time period for Wallachia, especially as the Ottoman Empire began to coalesce and rise. By the 1450s you had Vlad III waging war against Sultan Mehmed II, and the infamous Night Attack at Târgoviște. This is something that happened in living memory of the _entire cast_. The fate of the Belmonts means that Trevor would have been trying to survive in a country at war against a military that won Istanbul from Byzantium in extremely recent history. This cannot be emphasized enough in his characterization and backstory as it appears in the Netflix series.
> 
> Wallachia’s hierarchy is also only vaguely ever referred to in the series, but especially important for Trevor. While season one mentions _great houses_ , there’s no real elaboration. However, it is likely that the Belmonts were of the _boyar_ class, given how early Leon Belmont arrived in Wallachia. Establishing the family as landed gentry with administrative elements feels perfectly natural. Boyars with no administrative function or military duties were known as _mazil._ The lands were known as individual [obște](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ob%C8%99te), (obști is the plural) and I had to stop there before I fell into a big research hole about what happened with the transformation of the system into serfdom.
> 
> Back to Wallachia being chaotic. Boyars often conflicted with each other, and were plotting types as the Voivode was actually elected from various princes in the House of Basarab by the boyars. There was extremely high turnover in the 1400s, leading to additional instability. Given this level of shenanigans, it is reasonable to suspect that politics played a large part in the Belmonts falling from grace as they did. Ignore the political for only the night world, or be too comfortable, and only one thing can happen.
> 
> Wallachia was Catholic(ish) at the time, thanks to the Council of Florence in 1439 which saw the reconciliation of the Romanian Church with Rome. Given Castlevania, it’s fair to assume the Belmonts were always firmly tied with the Roman Catholic Church for most of their history within Wallachia.
> 
> Age-wise, the Night Attack being in 1462 puts about 14 years difference between the events of canon and the historical event. If Trevor’s in his mid- to late-twenties by the start of things, being around ten to twelve years old checks out.
> 
> Personally, I want season four to have the Ottomans (who at this point had generally subdued Wallachia as a vassal state, Radu the Handsome was Voivode in 1475/the year of Lisa’s murder and followed by Basarab the Old) and the Wallachian nobility acknowledge the impact of Dracula’s actions on the land and how it has generally been perceived. That the Ottomans wouldn’t take advantage of the chaos to hold their new domain is highly unlikely, and the night world of Wallachia doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
> 
> Also, so far as names go - several are Roman or Byzantine, as I was quickly struggling to place appropriate medieval era Wallachian names. Which is ridiculous given that the franchise has never dwelled on this fact but hey. It matters to me.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not a scholar of medieval Romanian history or socio-economics. However, the Belmonts were likely boyars during one of the most chaotic times of Wallachia's history, and it doubtlessly factored into their excommunication and fall from grace. Please see the end of the work for further notes.

The inn and public house that Mircea occupied the corner of was not a place a boyar would stop en route to or from the capital. It was the kind of establishment that sat alongside the roads meant for the common peasant who was compelled to travel for one reason or another. The roof was thatched, only three rooms were available, and the ale served was closer to water. But there was wisdom in stopping in places like these, and it wasn’t simply due to the thunderstorm that raged outside.

From his corner, Mircea could see the bar itself, the two patrons at it, and the three additional tables present. Only one had occupants, and from the light wool of their traveling cloaks, had no particular status. The two at the bar were young, with dirt-stained work clothes, but carried the bone weariness of those who worked the land all their lives. Likewise, it was easy to pick up snippets of conversation from the space, tucked away and unremarked upon by others.

Mircea had gotten used to the bad beer. The nearly impossible to eat food. He traveled in the clothes of poorer men, save for approaching and departing his home and the capital. The movements and slouching he had learned over time. Eyes glazed over him. Had for years now.

The two at the bar, they were unknown to Mircea. The inn sat at a crossroads, near one of Matei’s obște but not on it. One man with the other group was a worker on Belmont lands, although the name escaped him at the moment. All of them had been inside since just before the storm.

“So I grabbed the shovel and said ‘ _Hey! This isn’t Constantinople!_ ’” one of the men at the bar exclaimed. Based on volume alone, it was clear he had too many drinks already.

The other man - taller than most - nodded. “Then you hit him with the shovel?”

“Damn right I hit the bastard with the shovel! Then I told him it could be worse, that I could be Dracula and be shoving a stick up his arse instead.”

The barkeeper nodded along. “It’s a good threat to have now. I do wonder how he got that separated from the Sultan’s army though.”

The man who started it all shrugged. “Who the fuck knows. Or cares. I reckon that if the hit to the head didn’t eventually kill him, someone else did. We’ve got to, since the stupid Great Houses are fucking about waiting for whatever,” and Mircea had to hand it to the man, the wiggled fingers around the next two words did a nice job illustrating the frustration, “ _military action_ the Sultan’s going to do next. He wants us to bow, and the only person who seems to give a shit about that is the Voivode.”

Mircea took the tiniest sip of his beer before turning his head ever so slightly.

“Wait. Seriously, like witches witches?” The question was from the one man that Mircea recognized.

One other member of the group nodded. “Witches witches. Shit, you heard about that missing baby on the obște, right?”

The man nodded. “Yeah, but we just had an alert of wolves lurking. From one of their kids, uh. One of the ones who left and is here for the summer. Mioara? Tall, black hair, I think bit someone because she thought they were a vampire and that you could bite them first in self defense?”

A laugh sounded from the third man. “Oh, I was visiting the day that happened! She bit the parish priest in broad daylight. I think she was like, five?”

“But that’s what I’m saying,” the second one cut back in. “That’s cute, but think about it. How long have the Belmonts wrecked buildings, or ruined fields, or claimed a body mutilation was a night creature?”

The first shook his head. “I’ve _seen_ some of the night creatures. One of them was a horse with big wings and ram’s horns; it nearly stomped my neighbor to death before one of them showed up. And it isn’t like these things only show up on Belmont lands.”

“Sure, but if they’re witches, they could be inviting them here and _then_ running out to kill them!” the second man exclaimed. “So they look like heroes while serving Satan himself.”

Mircea tried to detect any wavering notes or signs of drunknesses. Nothing. He was probably only one drink in, if that. The frown on his face was hidden by the rim of his cup.

The third man shook his head. “Now you’re just pulling stuff out of your ass.”

“You know the excommunication rumor’s true,” the second countered. It wasn’t a fierce argument, only a clear insistence that he knew the reality of a situation. “A papal legate was stayed overnight at Matei’s estatealong with a bunch of other boyars, and the servants there confirmed that the whole group went to the Belmont house.”

“But it’s only Matei’s servants saying that,” the second man said. “You think that if there was an excommunication, the servants at the Belmont estate wouldn’t have said anything?”

“For all we know, they could be in on it too,” the third man shrugged. “Or under some enchantment not to say anything.”

A sigh came from the first man. “I’ve heard too many people on Belmont lands talking about the excommunication to think it false. None of the priests are addressing it though; that has more people worried . The Church could be denying us Heaven just because of the boyar we live under, and if that is true, they’re not telling us.”

Both men stayed quiet for a moment. The third one finally uttered, “Fuck. You need that land to change hands. If something happens between now and the Church deciding to tell you--”

“Another round!” yelled the shorter of the two men standing at the bar who have been talking about shovels. “Especially for them over there, I don’t think I’ve heard a more depressing conversation in my life.”

“Unless you’re here to offer your shovel, we don’t need your commentary,” the second man said, glaring across the room.

The shovel man scoffed. “Fine. Barkeep, I rescind the order. Another round for myself and my cousin and no one else.”

Mircea said nothing. In theory, he ought to have leapt up. Demanded, _”Well what about me, mate?”_ But with one man who would recognize him, it was an unacceptable risk. He hoisted the beer mug up just a little more to ensure his worried expression stayed hidden.

_The first time that Mircea spent any time alone with his intended wife as an hour before they were due to leave her family’s estate. The past two days had been focused on finalizing the marriage contract, arranging the appropriate dowry, and Mircea’s great aunt Antonia reminding Alexandra’s father that she was very much authorized to be doing this business,_ hhank you _. Mircea had been left to wander the home he found himself in to try and understand the family whose daughter he’d be marrying, and...he had no idea what Alexandra was doing. Getting ready, probably. At least that was his best guess, and she seemed ready to leave at this point. Alexandra wore a deep blue dress, complimented by a belt around her waist and a light coat of gold that shimmered in the firelight. Too light for traveling, but they were to take a carriage on the road back. Fine furs would provide warmth._

_He could have asked her, as they were seated alone in a small side room. Instead he asked, “Did my great aunt explain everything you’re getting involved in?”_

_“The vampire part or the politics part?” Alexandra asked. Every time Mircea had observed her, she was polite. Poised. Careful. As ancient as her family was, they were mazil, not boyars. They had not been a part of court life for over a century. The Belmonts were a means to fix that._

_A nervous laugh left Mircea’s throat. “The vampire part, I guess.” What a particular way of wording the endless battle with the night world._

_Alexandra narrowed her eyes a little. The perfect, even-toned voice slipped for something more genuine. Confused, actually. “You....you do know the Belmonts have a reputation, right?”_

_“My father doesn’t pay much attention to what others think.”_

_It was Alexandra’s turn to laugh, but hers was threaded with disbelief. “Oh._ Oh, _you’re serious,” she realized. “Oh dear. Oh. Hm.”_

_Mircea knew that his stare and face morphing into something a little more hurt was not the right reaction, but it was the only one he could manage. Alexandra’s laugh sputtered out, but she didn’t return to the sober, serious thing that Mircea had seen at the edges of activity over the past few days. “Look, the Belmonts are seen as a little mad. Not in a bad way, more in a...” Alexandra paused, looking for the nicest way to put what she was about to say. “You take good care of your people, but you also spend a lot of time chasing after old stories that don’t exist anymore. And your House lets women like your great aunt happen, which by the way? Having a seventy-year-old half-blind unmarried woman with mad grey hair and massive claw marks down her face wearing the finest silks barging into your room to tell you vampires, werewolves, and demons are one hundred percent real is an_ experience. _And reassurance that any daughters we have won’t be treated as unwanted afterthoughts until there’s a boy.”_

_“I guess I could’ve guessed at the mad part because of comments people make at court, but,” Mircea said, pausing for a beat. “It’s that well known? Even outside of noble circles?”_

_Alexandra’s eyes paused, looking up and toward the door before they returned to Mircea. A strange action, so far as he could tell. “Yeah, more or less. When my friends found out I was marrying you, they started sending me bulbs of garlic.”_

_“Garlic only works on certain vampires. If they’re worried about Dracula, then--oh.”_

_Alexandra grinned. It was a grin full of mischief, mixed with sheer delight. “Look, you can tell me about garlic when we get on the road. Do you know my family’s reputation?”_

_“You don’t seem to have much of one, aside from going back to Wallachia’s early days,” Mircea said, an undercurrent of apology in his voice. “Only a few boyars at court knew your family’s name, and those that did shrugged it off. Your...great-grandfather was a minor battlefield commander?”_

_“Yes, that’s about the full of it,” Alexandra confirmed. Her hair moved with her, like a natural extension of a face that became more and more animated the longer they talked. “Look, my father wants more status, and I’m the best way to get it. That’s fine, and at least with your family it’ll be interesting. But because I’m the best way for him to get status, he and my mother started introducing me to other mazil and boyars and even important common folk young. So I know people. Enough that after a few years of work and having people over every so often to entertain them and be friendly, I bet we can get rid of the mad reputation.”_

_Mircea’s smile was a soft thing. Impressed. A little smitten. “You’re going to love meeting my father.”_

_The mischief on Alexandra’s face only grew. “Vasile, the one who jumped out a window because someone said a vampire name? I can’t fucking_ wait! _”_

This could still be fixed. Alexandra was working the rumor mill. Mircea would deal with the obști, he had to, if this is what he was hearing. The plan of waiting until the last minute to leave the state wasn’t going to work; it wasn’t designed with this permutation of trouble in mind. When Mircea got home, they’d tell everyone what was going on. Send Mioara and Irina back to their husbands, have them do the same - and have them out of harm’s way just in case something happened. Ioanna and Trevor could go to the safe haven in the mountains, with Trevor bearing forged paperwork just in case. They’d have coin with them, and more stockpiled in the hideout.

Mircea quietly got up from his table and approached the bar.

“Already?” the barkeeper asked as Mircea slid a few coins over. “The rain’s still fierce out there.”

“Afraid so,” Mircea said. “Family emergency.”

The barkeeper counted the coins, and slid them all into his hand. “Go with God at your back, then.”

Mircea’s horse managed through the storm and through much of the night. Mircea considered it a miracle. They thundered through a tense and awful countryside, focused mostly on Istanbul. The Sultan had yet to respond in full to his impaled countrymen. Nothing good ever came of a man waiting to respond to an action like that, and more than once as Mircea let his horse rest, he was asked if he brought news of Mehmed II’s revenge.

_The devil can be patient, I suppose._ We’re far enough from the river and the sea, there’s no value in attacking us. _I heard that they’re letting excommunicates in the army because the Turks have killed so many good Christians._ What if there’s a greater conspiracy against Wallachia? _There’s witches abroad in the land. Did you see that storm last night?_ If there’s a coven, the Belmonts probably lead it. You hear about that missing baby two obște over? _I don’t know why we’re surprised; Wallachia’s always been like this._

Only Alexandra was on the steps of the estate when Mircea returned home just before sunset on the fourth day. Normally he would have gone to the stables first, but Alexandra’s figure was obvious from a distance. Besides, she never waited for him to return. To do so was to ensure heartbreak among Belmonts, as early generations quickly learned that some nights, no one came home. 

“How was riding with a broken arm?” she asked as Mircea carefully hopped off his horse.

Mircea embraced her with his good arm, leaning his ear close to her mouth. “Terrible, thank you for asking.”

“ _The rumor mill is beyond my control; we need to talk_ ,” she whispered. “ _Library._ ”

“I’ll get this one to the stables then,” Mircea said, ignoring the whisper. A servant or two had poked their heads out from behind the main doors of the estate. “Then wash from the road.”

“Ugh, please. You’ve developed quite the odor from it,” Alexandra replied. Her nose wrinkled, and Mircea knew that wasn’t an act. That it had gone uncommented on until now was actually a miracle in and of itself. 

Rather than walk to the stables properly, Mircea called to one of the servants watching the scene on the front steps to take care of the horse for him. The other to draw water to clean off the dirt of the road, and to take it to his room immediately. It’d be the quickest way to see him to the library, and there was no doubt in Mircea’s mind that it would require further adjustment of plans.

He entered the library with damp hair and a damp beard, road clothes switched out for more simple trousers and light tunic. Alexandra was waiting in front of the stone fireplace that lead down into the Hold, pacing. Adding to the wear and tear of the stone floor, as so many other family members before her had done.

“I know it’s bad,” Mircea said immediately, after he closed the door and jiggled the handle twice. Some older Maria Belmont had figured out a way to make sure no noise escaped the room if the appropriate steps were taken, and the jiggled handle was the key to it all. “I stopped to get out of that storm and--”

Alexandra finally stopped pacing. “ _Shit_ I put out all of the rumors we agreed upon about the Pope hearing an argument for restoration, that the Voivode hadn’t even done anything yet, that it’s Andrei trying to angle for a promotion so he can fight the Sultan, and a few more for good measure the morning you left. The news of the Night Attack here had so much talk of devils and curses that the matter of our excommunication got tied to it and--” she threw her hands up in the air. 

“Then that explains what I’ve heard,” Mircea said gravely. “We’re being accused of witchcraft, and summoning demons in order to lionize ourselves and portray the whole family as saviors of Wallachia against the darkness.” 

The way Alexandra sank into the armchair beside the fireplace was an agony.

“ _It got worse_ ,” Alexandra groaned. “I asked Ioanna to dress herself accordingly and go out the past few days to assess what was being said. Depending on who you ask, we’re a baby-eating coven of witches, we’re collaborators with demons and invited the Turks to attack - which is stupid because we know Vlad III has a hate boner for the Sultan personally. You didn’t hear about the preserved family cock we use for rituals, did you?”

“ _Hm_ ,” Mircea frowned, taking the distraction. “It might be related to Leon’s--”

Alexandra’s eyes blazed with fire, and her irritation was enough that she stood up again. “ _MIrcea!_ We need to pack our bags and go. The tide has already turned against us, the longer we linger the greater risk we--”

“I agree,” he said. “I was going to just send the older two to their husbands and instruct the younger two to safety, but it sounds like it’s better if we join them. I don’t know what happens to the land, but--”

A knock sounded against the door. Neither heard it, but the movement caught both Mircea’s and Alexandra’s eyes. 

“Fuck!” Alexandra declared, storming over to the door and flinging it open. Her expression remained faintly furious as she realized who was at the door, but her tone softened. “Trevor?”

Trevor stood there, all weight on his good leg. The setting sun’s warm orange glow flooded the windows behind him, but it was all wrong. He carried himself with a note of fear. Mircea straightened up out of instinct.

“Something’s weird,” he said. Not wrong. _Weird._ “Father, were there groups of people on the road up to the house?”

Mircea and Alexandra both emerged from the library, exchanging wary looks as they did. Fear was a rare emotion in the estate, unless one had just come back from a hunt. For Trevor to look so scared was to add alarm on top of an already too tense conversation.

“Not that I saw, no,” Mircea said, coming to look out of a window. The next question died on his tongue. He didn’t have to ask why Trevor thought of that question in particular. He understood.

The windows closest to the library were close to the main entrance of the estate. There were figures gathering in the distance. Figures with torches. A few horses, and most of them meant for farm work based on the breed. Guard dogs barked.

Alexandra let out a softer swear, but did not take her eyes from the window. Mircea did, eyes meeting his son’s. "Trevor," he said with a calmness he did not feel. "Go find your sisters. Mioara and Irina may still be in their rooms--"

"--Ioanna's in the kitchen last I saw--" Alexandra added.

"--then go to the stables. My travel bag is in there, take it. There’s documents in there for you; you have to hold onto them. Use the horses to leave, don’t bother with a wagon or anything else that will take time. Go north. Ioanna knows the foxholes and safe houses. Use them. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” It was uncertain. Nervous. The wrong emotions for the situation. Something that only a stern hand on Trevor’s shoulder and a careful tug back could fix. Same as on any hunt.

Mircea’s eyes met Trevor’s. Vasile Belmont would greet the mob with a cold stare and a sharp sword. He had to do the same, and it began here and now. “Trevor,” he intoned, letting the situation’s gravity color every word. “Do you understand?”

It was his hope that Trevor’s serious expression matched his own. The gravity and understanding did, with Trevor’s second reply of, “Yes.”

Trevor wasn’t supposed to be running yet. The leg injury from the night creature was still deep, and running could risk opening up stitches. Invite infection, and infection while traveling was a risk. But there was no other option now.

Alexandra stood at the window for only a moment more. She then took a step back, cleared her throat, and held out a hand towards Mircea. “Do you have your short sword on you?”

Mircea said nothing. He reached down to draw the weapon, then placed it in his wife’s hand. “Go down the corridor to where that decoration with those ugly swords you hate so much is. Both of them are functional.”

“Ah, defensive decorating,” she managed with a dry smile, starting to turn on her heel. “For Dracula?”

“That was the assumption,” Mircea replied, still channeling the calm that had given Trevor the instruction to run. He had his whip out now. 

Alexandra said nothing more. With the sword in one hand and the fabric of her dress in the other, she shot down the corridor with all the mad adrenaline her body could provide. Mircea stayed where he was for a moment longer, before using the whip to shatter the glass in front of him.

It was bad strategy, drawing a crowd’s attention like that. Worse to step through the broken window, knowing that one word could make every single person fall upon him in an instant. Strategy did not matter. All Mircea Belmont was now was a merchant for time. Every distracted second was a chance for all inside the estate to escape. 

“There’s the fucker!” someone in the crowd cried out. 

In a horrible moment, the surge of anger from the crowd threatened to drown Mircea. He felt it grab on, start to drag, but his voice sounded back louder. “ **Enough!** State your business!”

A tense, gut-wrenching silence settled. Mircea couldn’t look to the windows to see what was going on in the house. He saw a few sets of eyes looking past him. So with a crack of his whip against the ground, Mircea brought the silence and demanded all eyes on him.

“I _said_ state your business!”

No center ot the crowd parted to show an individual with grievance. No single person stepped forward. A voice that Mircea thought he recognized yelled, “You stole my son! Your fucking night creatures that serve your coven!”

“They’ve never protected us, they just wanted us to think that!”

“They’ll let the Turks right in!”

Now the crowd surged forward. Now someone threw a lit torch towards the windows, shattering them. Now the undertow grabbed hold of Mircea and dragged him. A punch landed, but Mircea didn’t fall back from it. Any Belmont could take a punch, just as any Belmont could stop a second from landing, even with a broken arm. 

“Ionuţ, what the fuck?” Mircea demanded. He knew a name could perhaps abate fury, and he knew the man’s current circumstances. One of the workers of the obste. Young. Father of two, the second just reaching a third birthday. A blessing after two miscarriages.

Ionuţ’s mustache caught drops of spittle as he roared, “Where is he, Belmont!? I’ll have them gut every one of your rich little pricks until you give my son back!”

It was an attempt to start a bar fight from Ionuţ’s end. His legs swept low, but were caught. The easy thing to do would be to fling the man around like a rag doll. Mircea knew he couldn’t, not if he wanted to regain control of the situation. Ionuţ hit the ground _hard_ , and Mircea didn’t bother to continue the fight. He turned back towards his home. Only a handful had stayed to assist Ionuţ. The rest had surged forward and were now inside, demanding more blood.

Mircea’s legs moved forward. All he could do now was go to the stables and hold off those who made their way there. Around him, the world screamed. The smell of fire filled his nose, and as Mircea leaped through one of the already smashed windows and into the house itself, he knew that it’d be the last time he entered. That was fine. So long as it was only _his_ last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First and foremost, thank you to [penitence_road ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penitence_road/pseuds/penitence_road) for the extensive editing she provided through the various drafts of this piece. There were quite a few versions, and balancing pacing, historical information, and characterization were all important. She excelled with every element, and I cannot thank her enough for her assistance and patience. 
> 
> To put it bluntly: I am not a historian with a focus on Wallachia. I do not have a college library with access to secondary works at present, and as such am aware that there are likely inaccuracies and mistakes made in trying to paint a general portrait of 1460s Wallachia and its class system. What I am is an archivist with a deep and abiding interest in how the historical period that the Netflix anime is set in impacts the series.
> 
> The 1400s was an incredibly chaotic time period for Wallachia, especially as the Ottoman Empire began to coalesce and rise. By the 1450s you had Vlad III waging war against Sultan Mehmed II, and the infamous Night Attack at Târgoviște. This is something that happened in living memory of the _entire cast_. The fate of the Belmonts means that Trevor would have been trying to survive in a country at war against a military that won Istanbul from Byzantium in extremely recent history. This cannot be emphasized enough in his characterization and backstory as it appears in the Netflix series.
> 
> Wallachia’s hierarchy is also only vaguely ever referred to in the series, but especially important for Trevor. While season one mentions _great houses_ , there’s no real elaboration. However, it is likely that the Belmonts were of the _boyar_ class, given how early Leon Belmont arrived in Wallachia. Establishing the family as landed gentry with administrative elements feels perfectly natural. Boyars with no administrative function or military duties were known as _mazil._ The lands were known as individual [obște](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ob%C8%99te), (obști is the plural) and I had to stop there before I fell into a big research hole about what happened with the transformation of the system into serfdom.
> 
> Back to Wallachia being chaotic. Boyars often conflicted with each other, and were plotting types as the Voivode was actually elected from various princes in the House of Basarab by the boyars. There was extremely high turnover in the 1400s, leading to additional instability. Given this level of shenanigans, it is reasonable to suspect that politics played a large part in the Belmonts falling from grace as they did. Ignore the political for only the night world, or be too comfortable, and only one thing can happen.
> 
> Wallachia was Catholic(ish) at the time, thanks to the Council of Florence in 1439 which saw the reconciliation of the Romanian Church with Rome. Given Castlevania, it’s fair to assume the Belmonts were always firmly tied with the Roman Catholic Church for most of their history within Wallachia.
> 
> Age-wise, the Night Attack being in 1462 puts about 14 years difference between the events of canon and the historical event. If Trevor’s in his mid- to late-twenties by the start of things, being around ten to twelve years old checks out.
> 
> Personally, I want season four to have the Ottomans (who at this point had generally subdued Wallachia as a vassal state, Radu the Handsome was Voivode in 1475/the year of Lisa’s murder and followed by Basarab the Old) and the Wallachian nobility acknowledge the impact of Dracula’s actions on the land and how it has generally been perceived. That the Ottomans wouldn’t take advantage of the chaos to hold their new domain is highly unlikely, and the night world of Wallachia doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
> 
> Also, so far as names go - several are Roman or Byzantine, as I was quickly struggling to place appropriate medieval era Wallachian names. Which is ridiculous given that the franchise has never dwelled on this fact but hey. It matters to me.

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, thank you to [penitence_road ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/penitence_road/pseuds/penitence_road) for the extensive editing she provided through the various drafts of this piece. There were quite a few versions, and balancing pacing, historical information, and characterization were all important. She excelled with every element, and I cannot thank her enough for her assistance and patience. 
> 
> To put it bluntly: I am not a historian with a focus on Wallachia. I do not have a college library with access to secondary works at present, and as such am aware that there are likely inaccuracies and mistakes made in trying to paint a general portrait of 1460s Wallachia and its class system. What I am is an archivist with a deep and abiding interest in how the historical period that the Netflix anime is set in impacts the series.
> 
> The 1400s was an incredibly chaotic time period for Wallachia, especially as the Ottoman Empire began to coalesce and rise. By the 1450s you had Vlad III waging war against Sultan Mehmed II, and the infamous Night Attack at Târgoviște. This is something that happened in living memory of the _entire cast_. The fate of the Belmonts means that Trevor would have been trying to survive in a country at war against a military that won Istanbul from Byzantium in extremely recent history. This cannot be emphasized enough in his characterization and backstory as it appears in the Netflix series.
> 
> Wallachia’s hierarchy is also only vaguely ever referred to in the series, but especially important for Trevor. While season one mentions _great houses_ , there’s no real elaboration. However, it is likely that the Belmonts were of the _boyar_ class, given how early Leon Belmont arrived in Wallachia. Establishing the family as landed gentry with administrative elements feels perfectly natural. Boyars with no administrative function or military duties were known as _mazil._ The lands were known as individual [obște](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ob%C8%99te), (obști is the plural) and I had to stop there before I fell into a big research hole about what happened with the transformation of the system into serfdom.
> 
> Back to Wallachia being chaotic. Boyars often conflicted with each other, and were plotting types as the Voivode was actually elected from various princes in the House of Basarab by the boyars. There was extremely high turnover in the 1400s, leading to additional instability. Given this level of shenanigans, it is reasonable to suspect that politics played a large part in the Belmonts falling from grace as they did. Ignore the political for only the night world, or be too comfortable, and only one thing can happen.
> 
> Wallachia was Catholic(ish) at the time, thanks to the Council of Florence in 1439 which saw the reconciliation of the Romanian Church with Rome. Given Castlevania, it’s fair to assume the Belmonts were always firmly tied with the Roman Catholic Church for most of their history within Wallachia.
> 
> Age-wise, the Night Attack being in 1462 puts about 14 years difference between the events of canon and the historical event. If Trevor’s in his mid- to late-twenties by the start of things, being around ten to twelve years old checks out.
> 
> Personally, I want season four to have the Ottomans (who at this point had generally subdued Wallachia as a vassal state, Radu the Handsome was Voivode in 1475/the year of Lisa’s murder and followed by Basarab the Old) and the Wallachian nobility acknowledge the impact of Dracula’s actions on the land and how it has generally been perceived. That the Ottomans wouldn’t take advantage of the chaos to hold their new domain is highly unlikely, and the night world of Wallachia doesn’t exist in a vacuum.
> 
> Also, so far as names go - several are Roman or Byzantine, as I was quickly struggling to place appropriate medieval era Wallachian names. Which is ridiculous given that the franchise has never dwelled on this fact but hey. It matters to me.


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